


Mockingbird

by deadcandance



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Declarations Of Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Muteness, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Slice of Life, Smut, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22542340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadcandance/pseuds/deadcandance
Summary: He knew this was how he would go.Death is a natural part of life and a Witcher knows his own will come by the hand of one of the many monsters they have been trained to hunt since childhood.Geralt has often wondered how it would feel like to die. And now he knows.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 52
Kudos: 458





	1. Alive

He knew this was how he would go.

Death is a natural part of life and a Witcher knows his own will come by the hand of one of the many monsters they have been trained to hunt since childhood.

Geralt has often wondered how it would feel like to die. And now he knows.

His death is a sharp claw through his chest, breaking flesh and bone alike in its destructive path. It cuts through him and the pain isn't like anything he has ever felt in his long life. He wants to scream, but when his mouth opens he chokes on his own blood.

There is a brief moment of clarity in which he knows he did not come here alone and that the beast will most likely move on once it's done with him. Geralt knows he can't allow that.

It takes every single ounce of his strength to wield his silver sword one last time and plant it between the creature's eyes. It shrieks horribly and its eyes go blank as its doubles over.

Geralt's body slips from the claw and falls to the ground without a sound. The fall doesn't hurt, nothing does anymore.

Everything is cold and distant ...

He feels trembling hands at both sides of his face and when he forces himself to open his eyes, he recognizes Jaskier's blurry features.

"Geralt! Look at me, it's okay, it's okay …" he says. He is scared and pale. From his breathing, Geralt can tell he's crying.

He used to think no one would weep for him when he died. He used to think he would be alone.

"Jaskier …" he breathes. It's so hard to talk. He's tired. He just wants to go. "Go … back … too dangerous …"

Jaskier shakes his head.

"I'm not leaving you!"

"It's too late …"

"No, it fucking isn't! Do … do you need a potion? Which one!? Geralt, please, j-just tell me what I need to do to help you …"

Geralt closes his eyes. No potion or sorcery can help him now. He coughs up more blood. When he opens his eyes, he notices some drips of it have stained Jaskier's face.

"Oh Gods no, no …" he hears him crying as he cradles his head. "Please, don't go …"

It hurts to hear how broken he is. Hurts more than dying.

"There's … one thing …" he struggles to say. Jaskier tries to contain his sobs to listen to him, his voice getting weaker.

"What is it, Geralt? Tell me, I'm right here …"

He really wants to. For the first time since he's met Jaskier, he is not afraid to give a name to what binds him to the bard.

But his time runs out a moment too soon.

Geralt can only let out a feeble wheeze before his world goes dark and silent.

* * *

A scream cuts through the silence of the night. Then another. Jaskier screams as long as he can, he screams until he hurts, holding the Witcher's dead body tight in his arms.

Geralt lies limp in his arms, amber eyes open and staring at the night sky above.

"I love you," Jaskier murmurs as he uses the sleeve of his shirt to clean the blood around Geralt's lips and down his chin. "I love you so much …"

Another violent sob shakes his body and he presses his forehead against Geralt's. He's still warm. If he closes his eyes, maybe he can pretend he's still with him … but he's too still and he isn't breathing and his blood is everywhere …

"I'm not leaving you," he says, gently stroking his hair. "I'm … I'm not ready to let you go …"

His fingers delicately close Geralt's eyes.

Whatever needs to be done, Jaskier will do it.

* * *

"Do you understand what you're asking?"

The witch gives him a cold stare. Back then, Jaskier might have been afraid of her, of what she's capable of, but now he doesn't care.

Whatever it takes.

She circles the wooden table where Geralt's body lies, stripped of his clothes. He is extremely pale, his lips a purplish color.

"Magic is a powerful instrument," she says, emerald eyes scanning the man before her as thin fingers trace the borders of his mortal wound. "But it requires a price. And the cost to bring one back from the land of the dead is high. Are you willing to pay for it?"

Jaskier looks up at her. He feels hollow inside as if someone took everything from inside of him and just left what was merely necessary to survive. No cost can be worse than living the rest of his days like this. In pain, and grief. Trying to fill a void that won't ever be filled.

"Yes, I'd do anything."

The sorceress nods slowly, hands clasped together in front of her.

"Love is fleeting. One day, you might regret paying this price."

Jaskier shakes his head. He's so tired.

"Just do what I asked … please."

The witch stays silent for a while, then presses her lips together. "Very well."

She is silent as she gathers a few candles and places them neatly at each corner of the table. She then lights them and burns some herbs in each flame as she chants some sort of spell.

"Come here, bard."

Jaskier stands and walks up to the table, looking lost.

"I … don't have anything to give you now," he mutters and had it been another time, he would have been ashamed of how small his voice sounded.

With her eyes closed, the sorceress smiled.

"I do not require material things. To bring this man back to life you must sacrifice what your heart holds dear the most."

Jaskier felt a few tears run down his cheeks.

"He … he was."

The woman chuckles and it's unpleasant. He doesn't need to be made fun of right now, not when the body of the man he loves lies lifeless in front of him.

"I'm afraid you can't offer what you want to save as payment."

Jaskier feels as if something cold squeezes his heart in a strong grip. He would never use Geralt as some sort of bargaining chip.

He looks at his face once more and caresses his face. His skin his cold. So cold.

He thinks back to their first meeting, of how his life changed after he began traveling with the Witcher. And he remembers slowly falling in love with him, remembers being afraid of it. It seems such a stupid fear now.

"I love to sing … it's my whole life …" he said through tears as his finger ran through silver hair covered in dirt. He didn't care whether the sorceress was watching him or not. "Take my voice."

There is silence. It seems to last for centuries.

"Are you sure? This cannot be undone."

"I'm sure. Just … bring Geralt back, I beg you."

The sorceress nods and takes a scarlet silken band from the basket where she'd gathered the necessary tools.

"Take his hand."

Jaskier does as he's told, gently, as if afraid to damage the Witcher. The sorceress ties their hands together.

"Close your eyes. Say what you offer and what you want. Three times."

There is no trace of doubt of fear in Jaskier's voice as he speaks.

"I give my voice for this man's life," he declares and repeats as he was told.

He keeps his eyes closed and expects to feel something, anything. But he doesn't. The sorceress undoes the band that has been binding them together.

"It is done."

Jaskier opens his eyes and immediately looks at Geralt. He is still pale, unmoving. He glances at the sorceress and she laughs.

"Give him some time. He's got a long journey ahead of him."

The bard – well, maybe Jaskier should start getting used to letting go of that title – nods.

"You should rest."

He simply shakes his head.

He's right where he wants to be.

* * *

There is warmth on his skin.

It's the first thing he becomes aware of, while he's still wrapped in silence and darkness. It feels good. The second thing is the slow, regular beat of his own heart. Gradually, Geralt gains control of his mind and body once more. It takes time and he feels as if he's slept for centuries.

When his last memory hits him, the feeling that something is extremely wrong sets in his chest and he can't shake it off.

He died.

Then why can he feel? Why can he think? Why is his heart beating and his lungs are filling with air? It doesn't make sense. There should be nothing.

Geralt's amber eyes finally open in spite of his eyelids feeling so heavy. Everything is blurry and confused and it takes him a while to adjust.

The Witcher immediately looks down to his own chest, searching for the wound that the beast's claw had left on him. He finds nothing but his old, familiar scars.

He then looks around as much as his position allows him too. Geralt doesn't recognize his surroundings. It's clearly a house and a few objects that catch his attention soon tell him that its owner probably practices magic.

He stares at the ceiling, feeling drained, yet at peace. Even though he has no idea where he is, he doesn't worry.

As he tries to wiggle his fingers, he feels his right hand trapped by something, yet it's only a faint resistance. With a grunt, he raises his head just enough to look down.

Both of Jaskier's hands are holding his own. Not too far from their joined hands, the bard's head rests on the mattress, hair disheveled. He is sitting on a chair by his side.

Before setting his head back on the pillow, Geralt notices his clothes are drenched in dried blood. Judging by the smell of it, it doesn't belong to the bard.

"Jaskier …" he croaks, an unpleasant feeling in his throat. He swallows a few times then tries to call him again. It's only a bit better.

Jaskier slowly raises his head from the bed, then it looks as if someone has hit him and his head snaps towards Geralt.

He can't describe the shift in the bard's features. But his eyes soon fill with tears and before Geralt can say anything more, he is wrapped tightly in his arms, Jaskier sobbing silently on his chest.

Geralt is very stiff for a while, not really knowing what to do. Then, he puts an arm around his smaller frame and holds him close.

For a while, Jaskier keeps his head buried in the Witcher's chest and cries. Geralt can feel his hot tears against his skin and his heart aches. He has never seen Jaskier crying. It hurts him.

When he lifts his head, he gives Geralt the brightest smile he's ever seen. And it's for him. It's almost unbearable.

I don't deserve his pain. Certainly not his happiness.

"I … thought I was …" Geralt says, looking at the bard's face in the hope to understand more about what is going on.

Jaskier doesn't say anything and just nods in response.

"What is this place?"

Jaskier takes his hand and holds it firmly.

That feeling of uneasiness in his chest becomes stronger. He wants to know what happened. How is he still alive.

"Where are we?" he asks again.

Jaskier looks away.

"I doubt the bard will answer, Witcher."

Geralt suddenly sits up on the bed. Even if it makes him dizzy.

The sorceress is an old, extremely skinny woman with dark skin and grey hair. She has bright, blue eyes and wears a green dress with a hood. She looks at Geralt with an amused expression, as if watching a particularly funny scene unfold before her.

"What have you done?" Geralt growls.

The woman lets out a dry laugh. It sounded forced, yet he wasn't sure he was.

Then Jaskier puts a hand on his face, gently making sure the Witcher looks at him. Once their eyes meet, the bard shakes his head.

"I did what he asked," the woman replies simply, crossing her arms over her chest like one would when dealing with a petulant child.

Suddenly Geralt is cold. And not because he is fully nude under the covers. It's a grim feeling that has grown stronger and is quickly spreading through his veins.

"What …" he almost can't bring himself to speak. If he does he will know. He isn't sure he wants to. "What did he ask?"

"For you to come back to the world of the living."


	2. Silence

"You shouldn't have done it."

There is no trace of anger in Geralt's voice. If anything, he sounds extremely tired. He wonders why Jaskier would sacrifice anything for him. For a  _ monster _ .

Deep down, there is a tiny spark in his heart, like the feeble flame of a single candle in the darkness of the night. Geralt hopes. In spite of many years of training, of forcing himself not to feel, not to care, not to get involved, he hopes. Hopes that behind the bard's bright smile, behind the light in his eyes there's more. A feeling to match the one that grew slowly in his heart as he got used to another's company in his travels, after many years of having Roach as his sole companion.

Jaskier stands and goes to look into their bags that the witch helped him bring inside earlier, then takes out some of his rolls of parchment and his pen. He quickly scribbles something and shows it to the Witcher.

_ Because it was the right thing to do. _

Geralt shakes his head. The right thing to do would have been to leave him dead. Maybe give him a proper burial, if Jaskier really wanted to. But he would have never held it against him if he'd chosen to leave his body at the mercy of the necrophages.

"The right … the _natural_ thing would have been to leave things as they were, Jaskier."

Jaskier looks hurt by his words and Geralt has to take a deep breath. He doesn't want to seem ungrateful, nor did he have a particularly strong death wish … but he can hardly bear the thought of Jaskier sacrificing something so dear to him for him.

"You loved to sing," Geralt adds, voice low as he tries not to look at the bard. "Now that's gone forever. And for what? I … I am not worth it,  _ Julian _ ."

He doesn't remember ever using the bard's real name ever since he's learned it. He always went by Jaskier and that's what Geralt has always called him. But this time it's different. It's as if Geralt wants to speak to his very soul, to the core of the man in front of him. It's  _ intimate _ .

When he finds it in himself to look up again at him, Jaskier doesn't look hurt anymore. It's worse. He looks  _ livid _ .

His face is as pale as the knuckles of his hands balled into tight fists, his lips a thin line. And in his big, expressive eyes, Geralt can see tears gathering once more. And he hates it. Hates that he's causing him so much pain.

The sound of the pen sliding on the parchment is loud, filling the silence of the room, that same silence that Geralt has caused.

_ It's my fault _ , he thinks. _ I did this to him _ .

Jaskier finally shows him the same piece of paper, his previous message hastily erased with a thin line. Underneath it there is a new, longer one:

_ You are worth this and so much more. It was my choice. I don't regret it. Stop acting like you forced me. _

The bard is holding the paper in trembling hands, eyes staring at Geralt. It's as if he wanted to scream those words, but knew he couldn't.

Geralt nods. Just to let him know he's finished reading. He's speechless. What more could he even say?

In his mind, he keeps seeing those few words.  _ You are worth this and so much more _ . He can't help but wonder whether that's true. He's so used to thinking he doesn't deserve happiness. Or love.

"Jaskier."

The bard turns. The anger has faded away. Now he just looks drained. Geralt suspects he only caught a few hours of uncomfortable sleep on that tiny chair beside his bed.

Jaskier is looking expectantly at him, a faint glimmer in his eyes. 

He was so close to telling him the truth back when he was dying in his arms. If he was ready then, why does he lack the courage now? He tells himself it's only because Jaskier has already been through enough and doesn't certainly need to deal with the pathetic love declaration of a mutant.

"You should get some rest. I want to leave this place as soon as possible."

Geralt watches the glimmer disappear. Maybe he's seeing things, maybe the magic that revived him has weakened him to the point that he's hallucinating. Had he said those few words, would Jaskier's face have lit up like his eyes? Would he have smiled?

The Witcher shakes his head. He should stop wasting time on such childish fantasies.

* * *

As soon as they both regained enough strength, they left the witch’s house.

Jaskier seems to have adjusted to his muteness quite rapidly. When he wants to catch Geralt’s attention, he tugs his sleeve or touches his shoulder. If it’s a matter of particular urgency, he grabs and squeezes his hand. Each time, Geralt can swear he forgets how to breathe. He can only hope he makes a good job of hiding it.

Jaskier also began leaving him notes, small pieces of parchment with brief messages written on them. He usually hides them where he knows Geralt will eventually find them. Each time he sees the Witcher approaching the particular bag where he’s hidden one, he smirks like a mischievous child waiting for someone to finally fall victim to their prank. Once Geralt looks at him, he bursts into laughter, making up for its lack of sound by clapping his hands and stomping his feet. It makes Geralt’s heart warm to see him like that, even though the content of the bard’s messages is usually far from kind. But the Witcher takes no offense: it’s how they banter now.

However, things are hardly always so simple.

Some nights, when Jaskier thinks Geralt is fast asleep, he takes his lute and strums a few notes before putting the instrument away and lying awake in his bedroll. It’s always sad, melancholic melodies. Geralt knows he misses singing, even though around him the bard acts sunny and happy. But at night, he changes, as if adjusting his outer self to what he truly feels inside. When Geralt hears the first notes he braces himself. He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fists until he feels his nails digging in the flesh. When Jaskier puts the lute away, he stays awake too, listening to his breathing and his occasional sighs. They never sleep too far from each other, yet in those nights Geralt feels like he’s so far away, so out of his reach. He wishes he could walk up to him, cradle him in his arms and hold him close to his heart. He wants to breathe in the rich scent of his curls, swear to him that he will travel to the end of the world just to find a way to give him back his voice. But he knows he could never do any of that. So he closes his eyes and hopes the sun will rise soon.

* * *

The fire does little to warm them both.

Jaskier is sitting next to him, hugging his legs, with his chin resting on his knees as he stares at the flame. Whenever Geralt finds the courage to take a brief glance at him, he can see the flames reflecting on his eyes, almost changing their color.   
The former bard is lost in his own thoughts and the Witcher doesn’t disturb him by asking if he’s cold: it’s clear enough by his constant shivering and the chattering of his teeth. So he stands up and walks to the bag where he keeps his cloak and other few clothes. When he picks it up, a small piece of parchment falls on the ground. Geralt recovers it and reads it, expecting one of Jaskier’s usually silly notes. But when his eyes scan the runes, he almost drops it in shock. It cannot be meant for him. Maybe it’s just a piece of an old ballad that has found its way in his bag. The Witcher even turns it to see whether there’s one of Jaskier’s creative monikers for him on the other side, but it’s empty.

He looks up at the poet, but he’s still staring at the fire. Maybe he hasn’t even noticed Geralt got up in the first place. Let alone that he found the note. He folds it carefully — as if it were a precious object — and puts it in the bag containing his potions. He has no intention of mentioning it.

He walks back to the fire and silently wraps his cloak around Jaskier’s shoulders. The man flinches, clearly surprised at first, but then he looks at Geralt and gives him a smile.

All Geralt sees, though, is the faint sadness in his eyes.

He sits back down next to him and for a while he stares at the flames as well. The silence between them seems to stretch for a long time and Geralt finds himself thinking back to when Jaskier would take out his pen and write parts of ballads, muttering to himself, counting syllables on his fingers and occasionally cursing when he couldn’t find a rhyme he liked. Geralt loved to listen to him. Now he can only listen to the sounds of nature around them. He would never have thought he could hate them so much.

“I know you miss singing,” he suddenly hears himself say and he’s surprised by the softness in his own voice. “You don’t have to pretend for my sake.”

He feels the poet’s eyes on him. He almost expects to see his rage once more, like he did when he’d told Jaskier he wasn’t worth the sacrifice back in the sorceress’ house. Instead, Jaskier’s eyes are a bit glassy with tears, but he’s smiling. This time it reaches his eyes. He gives him a small nod, the one he does when he wants Geralt to know he’s acknowledged what he’s said.

After that, he rests his head on the Witcher’s shoulder and it takes all of Geralt’s resolve not to show how much that simple gesture affects him. He simply allows himself to wrap an arm around the poet’s shoulders.  _ Just for warmth _ , he tells himself.

It doesn’t take long for Jaskier to fall asleep, softly snoring on Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher delicately scoops him up in his arms and walks to his bedroll. Before laying him down and tucking him in, though, he holds him a moment more, reveling in their closeness. He finds himself wishing it could always be like this, that he could always hold Jaskier in his arms at night.

He shakes his head and goes to put out the fire. He needs sleep, he knows, maybe he won’t be so irrational in the morning. Yet, when he finally lies down, sleep doesn’t come to him. His mind keeps racing and Geralt tosses and turns, trying to distract himself from his thoughts, but to no avail.

All he can’t think about is what was written on that small piece of parchment.

_ You’re everything I’ve been looking for my whole life. I couldn’t let you go. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that both Geralt's and Jaskier's characterizations may be heavily influenced by those in the books. However, you don't need to have read them to understand what's going on as there are little to no references to the events of the books in this work (I, myself, have only just started reading them!).   
> Since last time I forgot to post the notes with my chapters, I wanted to let you know that I'm not a native English speaker and my fanfic doesn't have a beta reader, so all mistakes are mine.   
> I also wanted to thank you all for your support! It means the word to me that you enjoy what I create.


	3. Yearning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating changed to Explicit because of smut. You have been warned!

Silky curls stick to his forehead glistening with sweat. His hands are soft on a skin that bears too many scars, so rarely touched as delicately as he does. 

"Gods, you feel  _ so _ good," he mutters, biting his lower lip afterwards, as if trying to silence much less coherent sounds. 

His own hand is gripping at the sheets almost desperately. His scent, his voice, the way he fills him up just  _ right  _ … it's so overwhelming, he fears that if he doesn't hold onto something he will lose himself.

"Look at you," he says and smiles. He can't believe such a perfect creature desires him. "You're  _ incredible _ , Geralt … so good for me …"

Just his voice, his words could be enough to push him over the edge, but it doesn't want it to end, he  _ needs _ him.

He gently pushes his knees up and Geralt obliges. The change makes it so each time he's deep in him, he hits that one spot that drives him mad.

Geralt arches his back and lets out a low, throaty moan. Jaskier gasps and lowers himself to leave a trail of kisses along his jaw.

"Yes, let me hear you …" he whispers in between wet kisses. "Let me hear how much you like this."

He can hear himself whispering his name, his  _ real _ name, because when they're like this there is nothing in the whole world he could deny him.

"I'm here,  _ my love _ , I'm right here," he replies breathlessly and finally he can feel his lips on his and he immediately tilts his head and open his own in an invitation to deepen the kiss.

Jaskier does just that. He slides his tongue in and moans. It's messy and hungry, but it’s exactly what they crave.

When they part, they're both short of breath. 

"I'm so close," Jaskier whispers in his ear. "Want me to come inside of you? To fill you up nice and good?"

Geralt's whole body shivers at his words and all he can say is  _ yes _ and  _ please. _

The pace of Jaskier's thrusts quickens but gets irregular and Geralt can't tear his gaze away from his face contorted by pleasure.

He's so deep in him when he finally orgasms with a strangled moan. He collapses on top of him, but Geralt welcomes him in his arms and strokes his back as the bard regains his breath.

It’s not long before he feels him kissing his chest and when he looks down, he’s met with a smirk and eyes once again dark with desire. “Your turn, my love,” he says as he slowly, _ too slowly _ , makes his way down his body leaving kisses and bites.

Geralt keeps his eyes closed and soon feels Jaskier setting in between his thighs. His slender, expert hands delicately stroke his aching length. His tongue begins to tease the head. The witcher bites his lower lip so hard he tastes blood, but when Jaskier takes him whole in his mouth he can’t hold back. He calls out his name again and again, his hand buried in his hair as he guides him further down. Jaskier adjusts himself and Geralt feels himself hitting the back of his throat. When the bard moans around him, it brings him over the edge.

He wakes up still feeling echoes of that wave of pleasure.

When he opens his eyes, he can only stare at the wooden boards of the ceiling. Even if it's starting to burn, he doesn't close his eyes, he  _ can't _ . Because he is sure he will see that face again, those red, swollen lips and half-lidded eyes. 

Between his thigh, he can feel the uncomfortable dampness of his release and he lets out a frustrated groan, pinching the bridge of his nose.

_ Pathetic _ , he thinks.  _ Coming in my pants like a kid. _

He gets up and quickly takes them off. It’s a good thing that Jaskier sleeps like the dead, at least he’s spared the embarrassment of having to explain why the fuck he’s washing his pants so early in the morning. 

He dares to take a look at him, but he’s completely buried under the covers and the only thing he can see is his tousled hair sticking out of the furs. The sight brings a smile to his lips, but the moment he realizes he is standing naked from the waist down, holding his come-stained pants as he stares at the poet with what he knows is a rather dumb expression on his face, he sighs and shakes his head.

_ I’m fucked. _

He’s suddenly relieved that he’s accepted a contract as soon as they reached town. He’ll take care of a ghoul infestation in the graveyard and be busy for most of the day. Which means he won’t have to be in Jaskier’s presence. He doesn’t know if he can take it after dreaming about him like  _ that _ .

He can only hope he’ll come up with a convincing excuse when he’ll inevitably have to turn down his offer to accompany him.

* * *

It's hard for Jaskier to keep still.

Be keeps pacing in their room, desperate to find something to keep himself busy as he waits for Geralt's return. 

The witcher refused to let him come along, claiming that if he'd been in danger, he could not have called for help. Jaskier knows he was right, still it doesn't make it easier.

In his mind, he keeps seeing the claw tear through Geralt's flesh, glistening in the moonlight with his blood. He sees Geralt's pale face as he quickly bled out in his arms. He remembers the weight of his dead body against his back as he desperately rode Roach in search for a sorceress' help.

And he finds himself struggling to breathe, clutching his damp shirt over his chest as if that could help him.

_ If he dies again _ , a voice in his head tells him,  _ you will have nothing to give _ . 

He tries to ignore it, but it's too hard. 

He used to think Geralt was invincible, that nothing could really strike him down, that he would recover from any wound.

Holding him as he died made him realize in the most painful way that, though strong, Geralt is mortal too, that death can take his hand and lead him to the place no one returns from.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut and buries his head in Geralt's pillow. He didn't even realize he had picked it, but he's glad he did.

His intense, rich scent is calming. 

_ He will be back _ , he tells himself.  _ It's just a bunch of ghouls. He told me not to worry. _

Once he no longer feels overwhelmed by his own thoughts, he decides to just head downstairs and seek the company of other people. Maybe hearing the buzzing of conversation with a pint of ale will help him pass the time.

The wooden stairs creak with each one of his steps, but no one notices. The inn is not yet crowded, just a few patrons. Behind the counter, the joyful innkeeper keeps an eye on her guests.

"By th' gods, child! What's wrong wi' ye? Ye look like ye've just seen a ghost!" she exclaims as soon as she sees him.

Jaskier offers her a smile as an answer. There's not much else he can do.

"Worried about yer friend, ain't ye?"

He must look surprised, because the woman erupts in a loud laugh as she gestures for him to come closer and puts a plate full of fragrant stew in front of him.

"He told me to keep an eye on ye. Here, eat this, ye look like ye're in th' wey o faint."

Jaskier reaches for his pocket for a couple of coins, but before he can put them on the counter, the woman pushes his hand away.

"It's on th' house."

He puts the money away and smiles once more. He appreciates the kind gesture, but what makes him feel warm inside is the thought of Geralt asking someone to look out for him while he's away.

Jaskier spends all day at the inn, but once the sun sets, he can feel his worry starting to resurface. He knows Geralt took the day to prepare for the fight and examine the town's graveyard the ghouls invaded. 

_ What if there's too many of them? What if the spell didn't work well and he's not as strong as he used to be before dying? _

The joyful innkeeper, may the gods bless her, offers to keep him busy by helping her with the clients. While he serves food and ale, he feels a bit less anxious, yet from time to time he finds himself glancing out of the windows. The darker it gets, the more he feels dread rising in his heart.

The hours go by slowly.   
Jaskier watches as the patrons leave and the other guests reach their rooms. He helps the innkeeper tidy the place before she retires for the night. Once they’re done, she gently squeezes his shoulder.

“Ye should go to bed, son.”

Jaskier nods, but he knows he will not sleep. Not until Geralt is safely back at the inn. The woman seems to understand and shakes her head.

“Yer friend isn’t like us. He's strong, bred to fight evils. He will be alright."

He smiles, but it’s a sad smile. 

The innkeeper leaves after giving him a pat on the back and he is left alone.

* * *

The main road is dark and silent except for the sound of Roach's hooves on the stone. It's such a stark contrast to the way it looks during the day, rich with people, smells and chatter.

"Almost there," Geralt tells his horse, glancing back at her as he leads her back to the inn's stables.

As they round the corner, Geralt can see the building from afar and its wooden signboard with a bear holding a jug of ale drawn on it. 

There should be no one in the streets, it's late at night. Yet he's right there, in front of the inn's door, arms crossed on his chest as he looks in his direction.

Geralt sees his eyes go wide and then he starts running towards him. He suddenly feels worried. Had something bad happened while he was away? Or had the poet managed to get in a fight?

His stream of thoughts is abruptly interrupted by Jaskier's body slamming against his. Before Geralt can do or say anything, the bard takes his face in his cold hands and kisses his lips.

He closes his eyes, but it's more of a natural reflex than a choice because he is damn sure he's lost control of his body.

Is he dreaming again? If he is, he can only hope it will last because he can't get enough of how good it feels to kiss Jaskier.

His lips are slightly chapped and in the back of his mind Geralt wonders how long he has been outside. And they taste salty, or so he thought, before realizing it's actually his tears. 

He gently pushes him away, even though he wants nothing more than to feel those lips again, and again, until he's left struggling to breathe. Jaskier is looking up at him with flushed cheeks and big, teary eyes.

Geralt wipes away some of his tears with his thumb, feeling just how soft his skin is.

"Let's go back inside before you freeze to death," he says, as delicately as he can manage.

The poet nods and wipes the rest of his tears with the sleeve of his purple doublet. Geralt circles his shoulders with his arms and holds him close. This time, he lets himself admit that he's doing it for more than just warmth.

* * *

None of them has mentioned what happened ever since they reached their room. 

Jaskier is sitting in front of the hearth, wrapped in one of the fur blankets as he holds a steaming cup of tea. 

Geralt is sitting on a small chair by the window, not too far from the poet. He tries to focus on the simple and familiar task of cleaning his sword, but his mind keeps going back to that kiss, to the feeling of Jaskier's lean body pressed against his.

He grunts and just decides to put the sword away. He wasn't probably doing a good job either way. 

His eyes fall on Jaskier and he notices he is looking at him. Geralt isn't sure what the right thing to do is. But then, the poet just walks up to him and kneels before him, his hands coming to rest on his legs. He is smiling, head tilted to the side.

"What?" Geralt blurts out, unable to tear his gaze away, feeling as if the skin under Jaskier's touch is going to burn.

The poet briefly taps his lips with two fingers. Geralt understands, it means something along the lines of  _ we should talk about the kiss _ .

"Yes … we should."

There is a long, awkward silence after that, until Geralt can't take it anymore and just vaguely gestures to the room.

"Don't stay down there, damn it!"

Jaskier laughs, clearly amused by how flustered he is, but gets up and goes to sit on the table by Geralt's side.

One of the poet's hand finds its way to his hair, gently tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. It's a sweet gesture, one that leaves little room for doubts. 

Geralt feels like he's standing on the edge of a cliff. On the other side, there's everything he desires. He only has to jump to reach it.

He looks at Jaskier. He's young, beautiful, capable of charming just anyone with his words. And also frail. It would take so little effort to harm him … to  _ lose _ him.

He knows the right thing to do would be to cast aside his own desires for him. Geralt has lived more than a lifetime, but Jaskier only gets this one. What kind of man would he be to let him waste it by his side?

"I found your note a few nights ago," he says, avoiding those big eyes, because he can't trust himself with words if he were to keep looking at him. "The one … where you wrote I'm everything you wanted. I told myself it wasn't meant for me, that it was just some piece of a discarded poem that had found its way in my bag. Even if I knew it wasn't true, because if you write something you don't like, you just burn it. So … deep down I knew it was for me."

He pauses, glances at the flames, shakes his head.

"They always say there is no better thing than to love and be loved in return … but I'm scared. No, I'm  _ terrified _ ."

He feels a hand on his shoulder and closes his eyes. Jaskier's grip is firm, but gentle.

"I know what I would do for you, the lengths I'd go just to be sure you're safe. If this is love and if you feel the same way I do … then it means you'd do no less. You already proved it the moment you gave your voice in exchange for my life."

The poet's hand slowly touches his cheek in a soothing way and Geralt finally looks up at Jaskier again.

"I am more than a hundred years old. I lived my life. My time came, Jaskier. I don't want you, in your old age, to look back and curse yourself because you gave up your gift to save a damned mutant from a death that was long overdue."

His gaze hardens and by the way his mouth sets in a thin line, Geralt knows the bard doesn't agree with him. Always so damn stubborn.

Jaskier's index finger briefly taps Geralt's forehead and then he puts that same hand on his chest, just above his heart. The witcher sighs.

"You believe I'm overthinking this."

Jaskier nods with a smile. His free hand points to himself, then pats his chest and finally points to Geralt. 

_ I love you _ .

The witcher closes his eyes and takes the poet's hand that was resting on his chest. He gently brings it to his lips and kisses the palm. He hears Jaskier's breath hitch. 

"I …" he begins, but stops himself. Fear sets in his heart, like it always does when he's so close to tell Jaskier those few, simple words. This time, though, Geralt chases it away. "I love you, too."

Jaskier's eyes seem to light up and his smile is so bright it's almost painful to watch. He hops off the table in one swift, graceful motion and stands in front of Geralt. The witcher slightly tilts his head backwards so he can watch him.

Jaskier combs through his hair with his fingers, moving white locks away from his face. Then he bends just enough to place a delicate kiss on his forehead.

Geralt closes his eyes as he feels bard's arms around him and rests his head on his chest. He can hear his quick heartbeat, but somehow the sound seems to calm him.

Jaskier doesn't need his voice to communicate with him, because Geralt understands.

This means  _ it's gonna be okay. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! It was a bit hard to write, but in the end I managed to finish it!


	4. Home

White, thin curtains dance to the light breeze that comes in from outside, bringing the smell of salt and the distant sound of waves crashing on the shore.

Jaskier groans as he stretches his arms and legs, even though he has no intention to get out of bed just yet.

He loves late mornings.

He turns to the side and watches the empty spot on the bed next to him. There is a blissful smile on his face as he recalls yet another night of amazing lovemaking.

He had been the one to propose settling down on the coast: he loves the warm climate and the scenery there. Geralt wasn't sure about it at first, saying he wasn't made for that kind of life. He still doesn't really know what made him change his mind. 

Their cabin was abandoned and partially destroyed, it belonged to no one and no one wanted it. Jaskier thought that with a little work it could have become a lovely place to live in. It took them almost a whole year to fix it, but in the end it had been worth it.

He decides to get up. He looks around the room and finds out his and Geralt’s clothes are no longer scattered on the floor where he’s last seen them, but neatly folded on the dresser.

He smiles. Geralt may not tell him he loves him often, but he makes him know through tiny gestures like this. Or when he comes back home from spending the night hunting and brings him a still warm pie from his favorite baker.

He quickly grabs one of Geralt’s shirts and puts it on. Even though he’s not much taller than he is, the witcher is considerably more muscular, and his clothes are comfortably bigger. Not to mention they always have his scent on them and Jaskier loves it.

He walks in the main room and hears the faint noise of stone grinding against a blade. He opens the main door and finds his lover there, sitting on a tree stump as he cares for his blade. Geralt immediately looks up at him.

“Morning, Jaskier,” he says, the hint of a smile on his lips.

Jaskier returns it and bends down to kiss his forehead.

“You need to stop stealing my clothes. One day I’ll wake up and have nothing to put on.”

He gives Geralt a knowing smirk and that earns him an eyeroll.  He then briefly touches his shoulder and as soon as Geralt looks at him, Jaskier points at him, then at the house. He has a bit of an idea of how to spend the morning.

The witcher, however, shakes his head.

"I'm heading to town. See if there's any work for me. It's been a while since my last contract and we need the coin."

Jaskier nods, unable to stop himself from pouting. He hears Geralt sighing, then he stands and holds his face in his big, rough hands. 

"Don't make that face, I'll be back soon. Besides, you'll have some time to work on your manuscript with no distractions."

The former bard nods. The manuscript had been Geralt's idea. Well, an unintentional idea, but still, Jaskier appreciated it.

There had been a time when he felt useless. He couldn't write songs, because the thought of not being able to sing them made the whole process stressful and unpleasant.

He still asked Geralt about his hunts, about the monsters he faced and how he would slay them, but even though he loved listening to him, he felt bad about not being able to do anything with those tales.

_ I believe people would love to read your poetry even though you can't sing anymore,  _ Geralt had said one day and that was the moment Jaskier realized he could write a book about the witcher's deeds.

He is almost done, now, and truly hopes that when the book will be published, he will be able to earn some coin of his own. Geralt has never complained about being the only source of income, but that doesn’t mean Jaskier doesn’t wish to contribute.

“I’ll go now. Don’t go swimming today, sea’s rough,” Geralt says before kissing his head.

Jaskier smiles and nods. He watches as Geralt prepares Roach for the trip and waves him goodbye as soon as they leave.

As usual, he feels a bit empty inside. 

* * *

He slowly walks through the narrow streets of the village. They hadn't been built with horses in mind, so he had to leave Roach at the gate. The horse didn't seem to mind, she had fresh hay and water to keep herself busy.

Even though he visits the place often, its inhabitants still give him side looks or avoid him altogether. Geralt doesn't mind, he's used to the humans' disdain of him, but he can't help but feel like they have had plenty of time to get used to his presence.

He soon reaches his destination, the only inn in town, and opens the door. Once he's in he quickly glances at the various clients until he spots a head full of raven hair and a pair of violet eyes.

"You're late."

"Good to see you too, Yen."

The witcher sits down at the table in front of the sorceress, who keeps staring at him with a raised brow.

"You look great," she says, smirking mischievously as she traces circles on the wooden surface of the table. “Can’t help wonder whose fault is that …”

He frowns, confused as to why she felt the need to tell him such a thing.

"Come on, don't give me that look, I'm just torturing you a bit."

"Yen … I'm not really in the mood for games."

The sorceress licks her lips and looks at him, still smiling. Geralt can't understand what the hell she finds so funny.

"Cheer up, witcher. I have good news."

Suddenly, he straightens himself on the bench he’s sitting on, eyes staring at the woman in front of him. 

“Have you found a solution?” he asks, unable to hide the hint of hopefulness in his voice.

Yennefer puts her open hands in front of her. “No, not really. Let’s call it a temporary fix.”

Geralt instinctively tilts his head, making a gesture with his end to encourage her to continue.

He watches as the sorceress puts a tiny velvet satchel on the table between them. She undoes the string holding it close and shows him the beautiful jewel inside. It's a silver necklace. The chain is thin and elegant, but it's the pendant that catches the witcher’s eye. It's a small bird with its beak wide open carved out of a crystal of an intense blue. On a closer inspection, he realizes it's a mockingbird. 

“It’s an enchanted necklace. As long as Jaskier wears it, he will be able to speak … and sing, as well.”

“How did you manage?”

She quickly puts the necklace back in the satchel and pushes it towards him.

“The payment for bringing you back from the death wasn’t Jaskier’s voice in  _ itself _ . It was rather his willingness to sacrifice something so dear to him. However, if I were to give him back his voice, I would basically undo the sacrifice. And without that sacrifice …”

“... I die.”

“Exactly.”

Geralt waits, knowing there is more judging by Yennefer’s focused expression. She’s probably finding a way to easily explain it to him. He’s never been too good at understanding complex magic.

“The amulet allows Jaskier to use a perfect copy of his voice. No one could ever be able to tell the difference. It’s a very intricate enchantment, but … as soon as he takes off the necklace, it vanishes. That’s way I called it a temporary fix.”

“A copy of his voice … and the pendant is a mockingbird.”

“Fitting, isn’t it? Had it made by a master jeweler. I know Jaskier appreciates the finest things in life. Let me know if he likes it.”

She stands, adjusting her cape.

“Aren’t you going to give it to him?”

“No. You will.”

“Why?”

“Because you wanted this for him.”

The witcher lowers his gaze on the satchel and takes it, securing it in one of his pants’ pockets. 

“Thank you, Yennefer. I owe you.”

“No. I did this for Jaskier. Because I owed him. Now we’re even.”

He stands and looks at her with a confused look. He has no idea why Yennefer would owe Jaskier something. Every time the pair talked to each other, it was nothing but snarky bantering. Still, it feels good to know that two of the most important people in his life actually get along better than he expected.

“He kept you company. Thanks to him, you weren’t alone on your journey. Not to mention he’s been a great friend to you and now … a good lover, too. And you deserve that, Geralt, no matter what you think,” she says.

“Yen --” Geralt begins, but Yennefer cuts him short.

“You don’t like it when I read your mind, I know. But this time I didn’t. It was clear on your face you were trying to figure out why the hell I owed Jaskier.”

The witcher merely grunts in response.

“Be well, Geralt. And say hello to Jaskier for me.”

“I will. See you around, Yen.”

* * *

He watches as the familiar shapes of Roach and Geralt approach their home. He raises an arm and waves at him, smiling as the witcher does the same. It's incredible how his heart fills with joy each time he sees him.

The moment he dismounts, Geralt walks up to him and hugs him tightly, nose buried in his hair. 

Jaskier closes his eyes and puts his hands on his hips, relaxing in his arms.

"Let's go inside. There’s something I need to tell you."

He looks up, suddenly feeling his heart beat fast. Geralt strokes his cheek.

"Don't worry, everything's okay."

Once inside, they sit down at the table and Geralt starts fidgeting with his hands, avoiding his gaze. Jaskier takes one and gives it an encouraging squeeze. Talking has never been his lover's strong suit.

"I haven't been completely honest with you," the witcher begins and surely he must feel the poet tense because he puts a warm, reassuring hand on his shoulder.  "Sometimes, the reason I rode to town was to meet Yennefer."

The former bard makes a few quick, obscene gestures and Geralt rolls his amber eyes.

"Jaskier."

He moves his hand to invite him to go on. He still isn't sure where this conversation is heading and to be honest he is a bit worried.

"The reason why I haven't told you anything is because I didn't want to give you any false hope."

Jaskier furrows his brows. Worry soon transforms into confusion. Why the hell would Geralt meeting Yennefer give him false hope?

"After I came back and found out you'd sacrificed your voice for me, I contacted her, asking her if there was any way for you to be able to speak and sing again."

Geralt pauses and runs a hand through his white hair.

"She searched and searched for a solution, but everything she came across had one thing in common: for you to have your voice back, I have to give my life."

Jaskier stands abruptly and it makes Geralt flinch. He starts making quick gestures with his hand, not caring whether the witcher is following him or not. They had this conversation so many times and Geralt still refuses to let go. He doesn't care much about his lost voice as long as he got him by his side safe and sound.

"Jaskier, please, let me finish," the witcher pleads and there's this  _ pain _ in his voice that the bard finds himself standing in front of him, suddenly feeling guilty for his outburst. 

He nods, sitting back again in front of him. Geralt lets out a small sigh.

"I told her you would never accept that and she kept looking, but also told me there wasn't much hope. Until today."

Jaskier watches as Geralt fumbles with something until there is a tiny velvet satchel in his hands. The witcher opens the satchel and shows him the content. It's an absolutely stunning piece of jewelry and Jaskier stares dumbfounded at Geralt as his fingers delicately stroke the blue crystal in the shape of a mockingbird.

"Yen called it a temporary solution," the witcher explains. "As long as you wear the necklace you will be able to use your voice."

Jaskier doesn't move. He doesn’t know how to react.

"I … figured it was better than nothing," Geralt adds, sounding almost shy.

He feels overwhelmed by the thought of Geralt worrying about his lost voice, of finally being able to sing again, to say to Geralt that he loves him. His eyes fill with tears that soon start running down his cheeks and Jaskier is quick to hide behind his hands.

The witcher is by his side in a heartbeat, kneeling in front of him and trying to take his hands away from his face.

"Julian, shh," he mutters. Like every time he uses his real name, he feels as if his heart has stopped beating. "You don't have to wear it if you don't want to. I can give it back to her."

He shakes his head and takes the beautiful jewel from the table, handing it to Geralt so he can help him put it on.

He doesn't feel any different once the chain is secured around his neck and he can’t help but wonder whether the amulet actually works as he touches the little crystal bird hanging over his chest. He knows that if anyone can manage such a thing, it’s Yennefer, still … he expected to feel  _ something _ .

And it’s as if he doesn’t trust his voice to work after so much time spent in silence. Geralt waits patiently by his side, a hand drawing soothing circles on his back.

"Thank you," he finally manages to whisper.

It doesn't sound croaked or unnatural, warped by magic. It's  _ his _ voice, the same one he'd given up in exchange for the love of his life to come back to him.

Geralt takes his faces in his hands and kisses his forehead. He has the biggest smile Jaskier has ever seen on his lips. It's _beautiful_.

"It works," he says softly and places more kisses all over his face.

Jaskier wants to cry. He feels happy, but it’s too much it almost hurts.

“It works,” he repeats and starts laughing softly through the tears.

He doesn’t know how much time they spend like that, holding each other, kissing softly, but it doesn’t matter because there is nothing in the world he wants more than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, readers!  
> here we are, at the end of this fic! this is basically the last chapter, the next one will be a short epilogue!  
> i hope you enjoyed it and if you want, you can leave kudos or comments, i really appreciate hearing from you!


	5. Epilogue

The sky has long taken an orange hue as the sun slowly disappears behind the horizon. 

It’s getting colder and Geralt feels Jaskier shivering against his body so he picks up the blanket that he brought and wraps it around his shoulders. Jaskier looks up at him and just offers him a wide smile, blue eyes shining behind the lenses of an old pair of eyeglasses.

He’s gotten old. It’s clear in the wrinkles on his face, in how most of his hair has turned gray, in his aching bones and trembling hands.

When he looks at him, Geralt is reminded of how fragile and brief human life is. And he’s scared because he knows they don’t have much time left and he isn’t ready to let Jaskier go. He isn’t ready to be alone again.

“You’re brooding again.”

“I’m sorry.”

The witcher feels a soft touch on his face. His hands are cold.

“Don’t be sorry. It just pains me to see you’re upset.”

“We should head back inside,” Geralt mutters, hoping to change the topic.

“Already? Can’t we stay a bit more? The sunset is beautiful.”

There is a longing in his voice that makes his heart ache.

Every evening they come on the shore, sit on the sand and watch the brightest star dive in the ocean. Jaskier has once told him he likes to say goodbye to the sun in case he doesn’t get to live another day. Geralt hasn’t been able to forget those words ever since and he can’t seem to enjoy that moment anymore.

“Just a bit. I don’t want you to get cold,” he finally gives in.

Jaskier runs a hand through his hand, places a small, delicate kiss on his cheek.

“Thanks, my love.”

It’s not long before they’re heading back to their small cabin, Jaskier tightly wrapped in his blanket as Geralt leads him with an arm over his shoulders. 

The old bard sits down on a chair near the fire with a content sigh while the witcher tends to it. Once he’s satisfied with the result, he picks up his mortar and pestle to crush some herbs for his potions. Jaskier begins to softly hum one of his old songs which brings a small smile to his lips.

“I wish I could see that everyday.”

Geralt looks up from his mortar, he didn’t realize Jaskier had stopped singing.

“That smile, I mean,” he continues. “You look so beautiful when you smile.”

“ _ Jaskier _ .”

“I know, I know,” he laughs. “You don’t like when I compliment you.”

He straightens on his chair and puts a hand on Geralt’s thigh.

“I just wish you were serene. But there always seems to be something worrying you.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, he simply stares at the pestle in his hand. But in a lifetime together, Jaskier has learned to read him as if he were one of his books.

“I have lived a good life, Geralt. I’m happy. And when my time will come, I will be here, in my home, with the man I loved. You don’t have to suffer because of this.”

The witcher stares at the flame, he doesn’t even notice his grip has tightened around the pestle. But then, he feels Jaskier’s hand over his one and finally dares to look at him.

“Say something, Geralt. Please.”

“I’m not ready …” he mutters, voice low. 

It’s scary to be vulnerable, but he trusts Jaskier. He knows he won’t hurt him.

“Come here,” he says, arms open in an invitation.

Geralt puts the mortar down and falls to his knees in front of Jaskier, burying his face in his chest, where the scent is strong. The old bard holds him and run his fingers through his hair.

Geralt finds himself wishing the rumors about witchers were true, he wishes his heart was made of stone so that he could not feel pain and fear.

“I love you, my dear, and I always will.”

He doesn’t know how much time he spends in his arms, but it’s soothing, slowly driving away his sorrows. Jaskier caresses his hair and sings to him until Geralt hears his voice become heavy with tiredness. So he stands and gently scoops him up in his arms, bringing him to their bed and laid him down, tucking him in.

He goes to put out the fire and then lies down beside Jaskier. Sometimes, even if he’s not tired, he lies next to him and holds him close. He feels him curling up against his chest as he always does and delicately strokes his back until he falls asleep.

“I love you,” Geralt whispers, running a hand through soft, silver hair. Jaskier doesn’t answer, but there is the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips.

* * *

His fingers slowly trace the engravings on the leather cover of an old book. 

It feels unreal, to be packing all these things, to leave the cabin where he has had a glimpse of a normal life. But he can’t bear to live there anymore, not since Jaskier is gone.

He went peacefully in his sleep, so at least Geralt can take comfort in the fact that he hasn’t suffered. Still, it doesn’t make it any easier.

He shakes his head and puts the book inside the bag. He then looks around the house, making sure he hasn’t forgotten any of the things he has decided to bring with himself. It’s not much: some of Jaskier’s diaries, an almost empty bottle of his favourite cologne, his mockingbird necklace, his comb …

Outside, Roach is waiting for him, most of his belongings already in her saddlebags. He takes the reins and slowly leads her to a place not too far from the cabin. There is a big tree that casts an ample shadow when the sun hits it right, Julian loved to sit beneath it to write.

Now there’s only loose dirt and a large stone.

Geralt knees in front of it and puts a bunch of little, yellow flower on top of the stone.

For a while, he just stays there, in silence, staring at the dirt beneath his knees.

He whispers two words, but only the wind can hear him.

_ Goodbye, Julian _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here we are at the end of this fic!   
> as i said, this was just a small, closing chapter. i apologize for taking this long to update, but it took me a while to come up with perfect ending! i hope you enjoy it!  
> i want to thank every single one of you who has read this, left kudos, comments etc.! it's always good to receive feedback!


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